Dead Run (31 page)

Wednesday, November 21
9:15 p.m.

M
inutes later, Liz huddled against the front passenger seat of the lieutenant's sedan. Cold air poured out of the air-conditioner vents, hitting the car's warm, damp interior and fogging the windows. She shuddered and hugged herself. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“To get your sister,” the detective replied, maneuvering through the debris-littered streets.

“I meant…where on Key West are we—”

“Not far. You'll see.”

Her teeth began to chatter. He didn't seem to notice, nor did he seem affected by the chill. “D…do you th…think she's at that address?”

He glanced at her, his eyes strangely blank. “I'm sure she is.”

She stared at him, her breath quickening. “Are you all right, Lieutenant?”

“I bet you're grateful I showed up when I did. Too bad it wasn't soon enough to save Tim.”

His voice sounded wrong, she realized. Tinny. Expressionless.

She cleared her throat. “How did you… I mean, what made you come by the church?”

“Tim called me.” He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. “That's what people do when they need help, call the police. Public servants. Can you believe that's what they call us, Liz?
Servants?
”

Uneasy, she pressed herself closer to the door. “No,” she whispered. “I can't.”

“Smart girl. You and your sister both.” He shook his head. “You've handed me the last piece of the puzzle, Liz. I thank you for that.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your sister. I wondered what had happened to her. I had my suspicions, but until tonight I didn't know for sure. One minute in my sights, the next—” he snapped his fingers “—poof, she was gone.”

She stared at him in growing horror.
Dear God. She'd been right before; he was the one.

“She called you, didn't she? About the Horned Flower?”

“People always trust the police.” He smiled again. “Funny, isn't it? Even though we carry guns and have the power and knowledge to totally fuck them over, they trust us. Because we work for them. Because we're their
servants.
”

He said the last in a high, singsong voice that sent a
chill over her. She rubbed her arms. “You went to kill her but she was gone.”

His smile faded. “It was a night like this one, thunder and lightning, rain coming down in sheets. She didn't get far from Paradise Christian. Found her car wrapped around a tree. Problem was, she wasn't in it.”

Liz pressed her lips together to keep from whimpering. She imagined her terrified sister, losing control of her car, seeing the tree rushing up to meet her.

“How did you get rid of her car?”

“I'm the police, Liz. Dealing with evidence is what I do, day in and out.” He let out a tired-sounding breath. “I had to shoot him, you know. Tim. Bitch didn't think about how I was going to have to clean up after her. She never thinks about me and what I have to do.”

Heather. They were in it together.

He let out a tight-sounding breath. “What a waste. He was a good guy, you know? A good ball player.”

Pastor Tim hadn't been part of it.
“Like my sister, he called you for help,” she murmured. “Because he discovered Rachel was alive.”

“Stephen told him.”

Stephen? She didn't know he could speak.

As if he read her mind, he nodded. “Yeah, he can speak, if that's what you want to call the sounds he makes. Growing up, we gave him a hard time. Called him half-wit, retard and stuff. We were merciless when he tried to speak. Somewhere along the line, he just stopped talking.” He glanced at her, then back at the road. “Sad, isn't it? Too bad Carla's bullet hadn't done the job. A person like him, what's the point? He'd be better off dead.”

She hugged herself, feeling ill. She wanted nothing more than to fling open the door and make a run for it, but he knew where Rachel was. Somehow, she would have to find a way to overcome him and save her sister.

“What about my sister's Bible? And the knife?”

He shrugged. “As far as I can tell, he just freaked out. Tim thought he had seen Mark Morgan with Stephen, so I paid Stephen a visit. Showed him some crime-scene photos. Described in detail the monster we were looking for, what he'd done. Talked about Taft, quoted some Scripture. I tried to impress on him the importance of cooperating with the police. Actually, it worked out rather nicely for me.”

He smiled. She found the way his lips stretched across his teeth obscene. “Some people just have no stomach for police work.”

Liz could imagine gentle, damaged Stephen being forced to look at photos of Tara and Naomi. At what had been done to them. How that might cause him to react, to “freak out,” as Val called it.

A brilliant flash of lightning tore across the night sky. It opened up then, unleashing a flood. Val flipped the wipers on high and eased off the accelerator. “Stephen saw them drag your sister out of the car.”

She straightened. “Them? Who?”

“A couple of those Rainbow Nation kids. They're like roaches. No matter how you try, you can't get rid of them.”

Liz thought of the young man who had warned her off the island earlier that day. “What did they want with her?”

“I don't think they wanted anything of her. But they'll do anything for money.”

He fell silent. Liz gripped the sides of the bucket seat. “You and Heather are partners, aren't you?”

Her question seemed to jolt him. He looked at her and she smiled grimly. “Heather and Taft worked together. They killed her little sister.”

His lips curled slightly and Liz realized that even though a monster, he drew the line at that. He shook his head, expression suddenly resigned. Sad. “You should have taken my threats seriously, Ms. Ames. You should have left Key West. I didn't want this to happen.”

“You left the note,” she murmured. “And the rat.”

“And paid that little cockroach to scare you today.” He slowed the automobile. “Here we are.”

He pulled up in front of a beautiful old Caribbean-style home. Wide galleries circled the white structure. Dark-green storm shutters covered the windows, all closed tight against Mother Nature's fury. An iron fence circled the lushly landscaped lot, which appeared to be a block deep.

He opened his car door, stepped out of the vehicle and came around for her. She didn't resist and let him lead her across the sidewalk and through the iron gate. The wind caught it and slammed it shut behind them. She had to find Rachel and get her away from here.

He didn't ring the bell or knock. She stood back and watched as he tried the door, found it locked, drew out his gun and fired three shots into the frame, then kicked the door open.

The picture of barely controlled fury, he strode into
the foyer, dragging her with him. Candlelight cast the room in a flickering, golden light.

“Where are you!” he roared. “Show yourself, you whore from hell!”

He released her and Liz inched back, frightened.

“Where are you!” he shouted again and started toward the stairs. He passed a flower arrangement and ripped it from its pedestal and sent it crashing to the floor. The vase shattered and water spewed over the marble entryway, the exotic blooms with it.

Liz realized that for the moment he had forgotten about her. She turned and darted toward the back of the house, praying her sister was on the first floor, not the second. She checked each room she passed. Each was as beautifully appointed as the last, like something out of
Architectural Digest
.

But each was empty. She made it to the back of the house. She stepped out onto the back gallery. It faced an inground pool, created to resemble a natural spa complete with a rock waterfall. Beyond the pool lay a greenhouse and equipment shed.

Liz caught her breath, remembering her dream of the other night. Rachel locked in a hot box, dying.

The equipment shed. Rachel was there.

She ran toward it. The door was padlocked, the windows boarded over. Liz look wildly around. Her gaze fell on a shovel propped against a tree several feet away. She retrieved it. Lifting it high, she brought it down on the padlock and hinge, again and again. The metal hinge began to give; Liz hoisted the shovel once more and brought it crashing down. The hinge gave. She tore open the door.

For a fraction of a second, Liz was blinded by the absolute darkness of the shed's interior. She took a step inside. Hot and foul-smelling, like decay or human waste.

Lightning flashed. Liz saw her. Her sister huddled in the corner, hands and feet bound, head lolling to the side.

“Rachel!” she cried.

She rushed to her sister's side. She knelt beside her, cupping her face in her palms. Her skin was hot. Another flash of lightning illuminated the interior. A sound of horror rose in Liz's throat. Her sister's lips were blistered from the heat, her arms and neck peppered with cuts, bruises and burns. Liz inched aside her filthy, ripped shirt and found her back and torso in the same condition.

It looked as if her sister had been tortured. Beaten, burned. And starved. There was little to her but skin and bones.

Tears blinded her. Dear Jesus, who could have done this?

But she knew. In her heart she knew.

Heather.

Liz tore at the rope that bound her sister's wrists, freeing them, then her ankles. She got an arm around her. “I'm getting you out of here, Rachel.”

“Think again, hero,” a woman said softly from behind her.

Liz froze, recognizing Heather's voice.

As if the woman could read her mind, she laughed. “Surprise, Liz.”

She looked over her shoulder at the other woman, not
hiding the depth of her hatred for her. “Not a surprise,” she spat. “I talked to your mother.”

“A loose end to be dealt with. Eventually.”

“You helped Taft kill your own sister.”

“No, he helped me kill her,” she replied, expression serene. “He was my most devoted disciple.”

Liz swallowed against the bile that rose in her throat. How could something so beautiful on the outside be so ugly inside? She shook her head in growing horror. “What kind of monster are you?”

“I'm
the
monster, Liz. I would have thought you'd have figured that out by now.” She glanced behind her. “Ah, here comes my darling Valentine. Different than Gavin but just as devoted.”

In the time since she last saw him, his mood seemed to have changed from furious to subdued. Liz wondered what had occurred between the two to cause the shift.

Again, as if she could read Liz's mind, Heather murmured, “He follows me. All that he now has, I've given him. I can just as easily take it all away. Isn't that right, my pet?”

“Fuck you, whore.”

Instead of being angry, it was as if his obscenity excited her. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him, openmouthed, her tongue spearing in and out, quick and snakelike. She brought her hand to his crotch and squeezed. He responded by grabbing her hair in his fist and yanking her head violently backward.

She laughed and released him. “Let's get this thing done.”

“Rick knows about you,” Liz said quickly, bringing Rachel closer to her side. “After I talked to your mother,
I called him. By now he's contacted the sheriff, the State Bureau of Investigation, the FBI. You won't get away with—”

“She's lying,” Val murmured. “Rick's under police guard down at the department. Held under suspicion of murder. Most recently, that of Detective Carla Chapman.”

Rick? Under arrest?

Carla Chapman, dead?

“That's right,” Heather said, responding to her unspoken questions. “Valentine has been amassing quite a lot of evidence against Rick Wells. Before this night is through, the man responsible for the Key West murders will be dead. Unfortunately, not before two more innocent women are slaughtered.”

“How?” Liz asked, fear gripping her like an icy hand. “How are you going to do it?”

Heather ignored her and glanced at Val. “What about Collins?”

“Dead by now. No doubt bled to death.”

Liz caught her breath. Pastor Tim hadn't been dead when she'd left him.

“You'll summon Wells?”

“As soon as we're ready for him.”

“Are you certain he'll come?”

“Absolutely.” The man smiled coldly at Liz. “We have his little girlfriend.” Val drew out his gun. “Time to go, ladies.”

Rachel moaned and shuddered. Liz fought her rising panic. She had to get her sister medical attention. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“Paradise Christian.”

The church? But wh—

Then she knew. It made a twisted kind of sense. Paradise Christian Church stood on holy ground. The site of a true miracle. She closed her eyes, recalling Father Paul's words: “
For in the desecration of the holy, evil extends its putrid grasp.”

Wednesday, November 21
9:50 p.m.

M
ark battled his way up Duval Street. A downed tree three blocks back had forced him to abandon his car and make his way to Liz's on foot.

The rain blinded him. The wind made forward progress nearly impossible. He prayed. For the Lord's help. His guidance and strength.

His friends were in great danger. He had to warn them.

Rachel was alive.

He had left Liz's that day after Lieutenant Lopez's visit and gone to the hospital. He had seen what the police had been up to. They needed a murderer. Who better than a monster? Who better to single out as a mad killer than a modern-day Quasimodo? The public
would buy it without a murmur. They would whisper, “Yes, it makes sense. Just look at him.”

Stephen was a good, gentle creature. One incapable of cruelty. Mark had not been about to sit back and allow his friend to be framed.

He had posed as an orderly to get past the police guard. Pastor Tim had been there, praying over Stephen. He had been white as a sheet. The pastor had recognized Mark immediately and caught his hand. “We have to get him away from here,” he had whispered. “They mean him harm.”

And Mark's suspicions of the man had melted away.

The pastor had told him what he had learned in the past hours: that Rachel was alive. The night she had disappeared, Stephen had seen a woman on the church grounds—the woman from the boutique across the street. He had seen Pastor Howard crash into a tree and had seen the woman and others pull her from her car after it crashed.

He had been frightened. Pastor Rachel had warned him of the evil ones. She had warned him to stay away from them. She had given him the package for her sister, but he had forgotten how she'd said to get it to her.

From photos, Stephen had recognized Liz, but when he had approached her at the church, he had been chased away by the evil woman. So he had left the envelope for Pastor Tim to find. Stephen had figured that he would know what to do with it.

Together, Mark and the pastor had prayed. And planned. Pastor Tim had friends in Miami. One, a doctor and fellow pastor, would care for Stephen. Mark would stay with Stephen while Tim did a little snooping.

Then, when the guard had gone for coffee, they had unplugged Stephen and stolen him away.

A gust of wind knocked Mark back. He dug in and clawed his way forward.

But he hadn't stayed in Miami. When he'd seen that Stephen was safe, he had returned to Key West. He'd felt strongly that the Lord wanted him here, right this moment, in the midst of the storm. From the beginning, he'd believed the Lord had called him to Key West. He'd thought Tara had been the reason, but he had been wrong.

This was it. He was here to do battle for God. Against evil. Against those who would seduce and contaminate girls like Tara, those who would murder and expect to get away with it by framing the innocent. He didn't think of himself as heroic, just obedient. He hadn't a clue how he would help, what might be expected of him. But he wasn't afraid. It came down to a matter of what was worth living for—and what was worth dying for.

Mark reached Liz's storefront first. He peered in the darkened window—nothing looked out of order. Just to be certain, he tried the door. And found it locked.

Mark tipped his head back. The blinds on Liz's apartment windows were drawn, closed tight. He made his way to her door. He tried the knob and twisted. The door blew open, slamming against the side wall.

Trembling, he ducked inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

He called for her, once. Then again.

She didn't respond and he jogged up the stairs. Nothing appeared out of order in her living room. A quick search revealed the same in the rest of the rooms.

She wasn't here. And judging by the presence of her toothbrush and other toiletries in the bathroom, she hadn't left the island.

Please, Lord, let me not be too late.

Mark made his way back out into the storm. The rain had temporarily slowed to a drizzle. Taking advantage of that, he sprinted toward the Hideaway. Rick had boarded over the windows; both the front and service doors were locked.

Mark pounded and called for the man. After several moments had passed, growing desperate, he turned—and saw Liz's car. A white Ford Taurus with a Missouri tag. It sat slightly left of the center of Duval Street, driver-side door open. Mark's knees went weak with dread.

He closed his eyes and forced a deep breath into his lungs. When he expelled the breath, he expelled the fear with it. Darting into the street, he closed the distance to the car. The keys were in the ignition, her cell phone on the center console.

This was bad, very bad. Mark straightened and scanned the area. Boarded-up stores, all dark. A few automobiles, all empty. Paradise Christian, also dark.

He snatched up the cell phone and pressed the power button. The display came to life, the greenish glow the most welcoming he had ever known. Until it displayed the
no service
message.

With a sound of frustration, he tossed it onto the seat. The rain began again, with a vengeance. Thunder rumbled.
Lord, help me. I can't do this on my own. What now?

And then, he had his answer. Mark turned and stared at the church's darkened facade.

This was where the Lord wanted him to be.

Grabbing both Liz's keys and car phone, he slammed the door and battled his way to the church's front doors.

He found them unlocked and slipped inside. Obviously the power had been out some time; the interior of
the church was humid and warm. Other than the sound of the rain, the church was silent.

“Liz?” he called. “It's Mark. Are you here?”

He made his way to the sanctuary. The flame from the eternal candle cast a soft circle of light. He called out for Liz again, then Pastor Tim. His words echoed back at him, bouncing off the wooden pews, the crucifix of Christ. The large stained-glass window behind the altar alternately brightened and darkened with the flashes of lightning outside. He lifted his face. The choir loft was located above him to the right. And, like the rest of the church, was dark. Empty.

Liz wasn't here.

He didn't know why he was so certain of that but he was. He took a candle from the altar, lit it and continued his search, first through the rest of the sanctuary, then of the other rooms. The nursery and fellowship hall. The Sunday-school classrooms. The office.

He found all empty. He reached the pastor's study. The door was open. He stepped inside. And found Pastor Tim sprawled on the floor in front of his desk, the front of his light-colored shirt marred by an ominous, dark stain.

Mark gasped and rushed to his friend's side.